Mind of a kind
by Pekenota14
Summary: A seven-year-old girl shows up at 221B, wanting to learn from Sherlock. She ends up staying for the weekend. Sherlock sees on her how he was when younger and John learns things about Sherlock and his childhood that he'd never tell him. - 5th and last chapter uploaded
1. Chapter 1

**I won't make this fanfiction very long, but I certainly appreciate readers, followers and reviews. If you like it, let me know! ^_^**

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John got up with the midmorning sun shedding its rays, hitting him directly on the eyes. He moaned as he attempted to move, blinded by the sun, having fallen asleep on the armchair. He rubbed his eyes while sitting up more comfortably. Like a little boy, he ruffled his hair, his eyes shutting again due to morning laziness.

He looked over to his left; Sherlock is balled up, sleeping, face pressed against the Chesterfield couch, most likely still sulking. Cluedo is still laid out over the dining table and John chuckles silently. Sherlock can't get over the fact that John always finds and proves to him who the killer is and he can't; he still insists the victim commits suicide.

John got up and dragged his body to the bathroom, seeking for a quick shower. Even though the water rushing down his face awoke him up, it didn't wash away the terrible ache hammering his back muscles. He stepped out of the bathtub, wrapped the towel around his waist. In those moments he believes he's growing old because he gets all achy if he doesn't sleep in his bed.

With his hand he wiped the fogged up mirror and eyed himself. He ran his hands along his cheeks, feeling some beardy hair that he decided to shave. Once he was done he made his way to the main room, going to pick up clean clothes.

"Sherlock, John!" Mrs. Hudson walked in suddenly, almost seeing John completely naked. "Oh my, sorry." The lady apologizes and quickly John covers his exposed skin. "Ah, well" She continued a little bewildered. "there's a young girl at the door. Says she'll only talks with you or Sherlock. I tried to invite her in but she doesn't want."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I'll go check on her right away. Well, after I put on my clothes."

"Of course." The landlady left as quickly as she entered.

John threw the blanket over the armchair, calling out. "Awake up, Sherlock. There's a new case, apparently."

While John dressed up Sherlock got up leisurely and walked to the kitchen, serving himself with a cup of coffee.

Quickly John walked to the bathroom again, dragged a comb across his hair. When he returned to the main room, Sherlock is sitting at the dining table, reading the newspaper, blowing his coffee.

"Join me for a cup?"

"There's someone down there, Sherlock!"

John walked downstairs in a quick pace and opened the door finding a young schoolgirl, of seven or eight of age, sitting on the doorstep with a satchel that goes across her shoulder.

"Say, sweetheart," John mildly spoke, ducking near the girl. "you don't happen to have seen a young woman wanting to talk with the people who live here, do you?"

"It's me, Doctor Watson." She spoke. "I'm the one who wants to speak with Mr. Holmes."

"You?" He asked surprised.

"Yes."

"Can you tell me then what's your name first then?"

"Layla, as in Derek and The Dominos' song. Mum loves music, daddy loves Eric Clapton."

John chuckled. "I'm John, by the way."

"I know. I read your blog, Doctor Watson, and I love it. Me favorite case is _The Hounds of Baskerville_. And I love the way Mr. Holmes solves all the cases. You know, I have a mind just like his!"

"You do? Are you a good student at school?" John started to chit chat, looking around. That child must have got lost from her parents.

"School is boring. I was promoted to third grade class."

"What grade should you be in if you hadn't been promoted?" John asked, taking a seat next to her.

"First grade. But it is all so easy. Mrs. Howard, our teacher, took me to do an IQ test. I scored 152 but she says I can get a higher score with time."

John frowned. The conversation was getting intriguing. "Ok, you're very smart, but you're still a child, so where are your parents? Have you lost from them?"

"No. I came here by me self. Ma mum is at our home in Liverpool, preparing for a big concert for this weekend and me daddy is in Vienna, at a Chemists' Conference."

"Liverpool!? How did you come here?" And how come she doesn't know you're gone?"

"I told me daddy I was staying with mum and told mum I was going to Vienna with daddy!" She innocently confessed. "Then, before riding the train I got close to a woman who was holding a child and everyone thought I was her daughter too."

"Oh good Lord." John sighed, rubbing his eyes. "And of all the places to go you decide to come here, why?"

"I want to learn from Mr. Holmes. You think he can teach me more things? Is he home?"

John smiled, saying. "He is. Last I checked he was having a cup of coffee, reading yesterday's paper and is still sulked at me for having lost Cluedo."

The little girl giggled and admitted. "I don't like Cluedo either. Isn't suicide an option of answer?"

John's eyes widened with astonishment. "Ok, why don't we go inside and I give you something to eat? You must be hungry and then we call-"

"I go inside if you ask something to Mr. Holmes for me."

"Alright, what is it?"

"Tell him 20 7 53 16-"

"Wait, wait!" John cut her speech.

"Oh sorry, your brain runs slower; I sometimes forget that not all people are like me." She said, though not trying to be rude. The girl took a school notebook and a pen from her satchel and wrote him a small note, giving it to him. "I wait for you to bring me his answer."

"O-okay." John stuttered. Dealing with that little girl was like dealing with a child version of Sherlock.

John entered the house, not shutting the door. He made his way upstairs and spoke to Sherlock as soon as he entered the door. "You won't believe what is downstairs."

"Is it a promising case for me or a promising case for your average mind?"

John skipped ahead Sherlock's comment, continuing. "It's a seven-year-old girl with an IQ score of 152. Asked me to give you this and is waiting for your answer."

Sherlock unfolded the paper sheet, reading out to himself what was written there.

After a brief moment of thinking he gave back the paper back to John, saying. "102; tell her that."

John was puzzled and only muttered an 'alright'. On his way downstairs he unfolded the paper, reading what the girl had written. "20 7 53 16 73 39 2 75." He stopped at the last step, staring ahead with a confused expression. John opened the door, finding the girl waiting for him. "He said 102, don't know wha-"

"Can I talk with him?"

"Be my guest." John said. He opened the door and led her upstairs to Sherlock.

"Mister, please," She began as soon as she saw him. "I came a long way. Just three days, that's all I ask."

"My answer to your question is still the same." Sherlock answered.

"Alright, what answer and what question? All I heard was you speaking out numbers!" John burst, confused.

"Atomic numbers of chemical elements," Sherlock enlightened John. "that's what she wrote."

"And?" He insisted. Neither of them said a word. The girl was still captive in looking at Sherlock and he was trying hard to avoid her. "Ok, neither of you will tell me, so I'll figure what it is all this! In the meantime you" He pointed Sherlock. "will keep doing whatever you're doing and you" This time he pointed the girl. "put down your bag, take a seat and eat something. Mrs. Hudson?" John called on the top of his lungs. Once the landlady was on the room, John requested. "Can you get the little girl something to eat?"

"Of course. Come with me, love, I'm sure there's nothing eatable in here!" She said, extending her hand at her.

The girl left her satchel on the room and walked downstairs with Mrs. Hudson. John sat at his laptop, searching those numbers for chemical elements, mumbling frustrated words. It didn't take him too long to associate each number to a chemical.

"Calcium, Nitrogen, Iodine," John began to report the result of his search, waiting for Sherlock to interrupt him at any moment, luckily to explain him everything.

Instead of explaining, Sherlock just said every chemical element John had searched. "Sulfur, Tantalum, Yttrium, Helium, Rhenium."

"And you answer with Nobelium. I'm still not following the logic!"

"Look for each element symbol denotation."

John sighed deeply but continued his research. Sherlock likes to make him think like that.

"Fantastic…" He muttered reading his scribbles. "Ca, N, I, S, TA, Y, He, Re."

"Bravo, John!" Sherlock pronounced, truly excited for John's accomplishment.

"And your answer was No. This was-"

"Don't say fantastic again. Or amazing. Or anything similar."

John was still amazed with his success that he only noticed that Mrs. Hudson and the girl were back on the room when the child asked. "Have you figured it out yet?"

"As a matter of fact I did."

"Can you convince him otherwise?" She begged, giving him the puppy dog eyes.

"Before anything else you need to phone both your parents and tell them where you are and that you are okay."

"Why?"

"Because…" John hushed. He wanted to answer with the typical 'because I said so', but he knew that wouldn't work. "You know what happens if your parents communicate you're missing? There's going to be Police looking everywhere for you and if they knock on this door and find you here, Sherlock and I are charged with kidnapping because you're too young to say that you weren't coerced to lie."

"But if they agree, can you convince Mr. Sherlock into letting me stay?"

"I can try." Sherlock looked sideways at him, disapproving his answer. "But first things first; who do we phone first?"

"Daddy, 'cause daddy always understands. Then we deal with mum."

"And we're doomed…" Sherlock mumbled. John looked at him, waiting for an explanation. "The differentiation from 'mum' to 'daddy'. Her parents are divorced; in a way she prefers her father. When she says he always understands, it's implied that it was from her father that she got this smartness and allows her to explore that intelligence, so he will understand if she tells him she wants to stay with us."

"Daddy is a college professor of chemistry and mathematics but ma mum is smart too. She's a cellist on the Royal Liverpool Philharmonic's orchestra."

"Ooh, the accent and dialect; she's Liverpudlian." Sherlock concluded.

John sighed; Sherlock was not going to be any help with the situation. He grabbed the phone himself and walked to the girl who was highly interested on Sherlock's Stradivarius violin.

"Come here." He beckoned her, pointing the couch for her to take a seat next to him. "Do you know your father's number? Uhm, of course you do, idiot question." John gave her the phone, ordering. "Dial the number and then give it to me, I'm speaking with your father."

Layla dialed the number and handed the phone back to John. As he waited for the call to be taken, he asked her. "What is his name?"

"Henry Conrad."

At that moment, the call was taken. "Hello, Sir. Am I by any chance talking with Henry Conrad?"

"_Yes. With whom am I talking?_"

"John Watson."

"_Sherlock Holmes' partner? From the blog of Doctor John H. Watson? I'm a big fan._"

"Yes, it's me. What I have to tell you sounds very vague and unlikely to believe, but I need to tell you anyway. Your daughter is currently sitting next to me in my flat here in London."

"_Layla is there? How did she go there? What happened?_"

"I'll let her explain you all of that. We talk in a while Mr. Conrad." John handed the phone to Layla, saying. "After you're done talking with your father, don't hang up and give me back the phone."

"Hi daddy." She joyfully greeted. "I'm alright, don't get a cob (…) Daddy, you know I'm not divvy. I look after me self (…) Mum is busy and would leave me with a nanny and you are there in Vienna, so I was bored! Let me stay here? (…) I hopped on a train and looked for 221B Baker Street. Me just wanna learn with Mr. Holmes for the weekend." John was listening to the intermittent conversation when Layla gave the phone, saying. "He wants to speak with you."

"Mr. Conrad, I know I'm just a stranger, but what do you want me to do? We're going to phone her mother after." At that moment John looked at Layla who was nodding her head, making him say. "Yes, we are. I'm sorry, but she was nodding a 'no'."

"_You're no stranger, Dr. Watson, believe me. And I'm not worried at all; if you two weren't the people she sees on the telly and on the papers, she would never address a word to you. She's an admirer of both you and Mr. Holmes, and as you may have noticed by now, Layla is gifted. Who am I to deny her constant seeking for knowledge? I know this may sound irresponsible, but don't phone my ex-wife. I'll handle her. And to me, and mostly to her, it'd be an honor if you'd let her stay there for the weekend._ _Well, obviously if you're predisposed to accept it. I promise if you agree to take her for the weekend, I'll hop on the first flight and be in London on Monday morning sharp._"

"I guess it'd be no harm in letting her stay." Upon listening to those words Layla was already celebrating. "She's very happy right now." John said, trying to disguise a smile that played with his lips. The little girl, no matter how smart she was, still was a child and she was adorable, bursting with happiness.

John listened to the man laugh a little, and felt, through an irregular breathing of his and the way he spoke after, that his girl's reaction had touched that father's heart and soul. "_I believe so. She had begged me several times to take her to London and meet Mr. Holmes. All she wants is to learn. And I promise to pay for anything she may wreck. Now, can you put her on the phone once more? I want to leave her some reminders._"

"Of course." John gave back the phone to the girl. It didn't take much long for her to hang up, after muttering a lot of 'okays'.

Sherlock got up from his chair, looking at his phone screen. "I'm off to St. Bart's. Lestrade wants me to see a body at the morgue."

"Can I go along?" Layla asked.

Before Sherlock even answering, John warned. "You're not taking her to a morgue. She's still a child!"

"I'm not taking her. I didn't even say I let her stay at the flat."

Sherlock left out the door. Layla ran to grab her satchel and left after him. John got up in a hurry as well, following the two. In the end, the three were riding the same cab. Layla was still sweetly looking at Sherlock, trying to break him.

"Oh come Sherlock, it's just for the weekend." John finally spoke, being already charmed by the girl.

"You as well, John?"

"Please Mr. Sherlock." Layla plead once more.

"Not matter what I say you'll be following me anyways." Sherlock affirmed.

"Sounds like someone I know." John muttered, making Sherlock stare out the window.

Layla giggle with the doctor's commentary and said. "I take that as a 'yes' Mr. Sherlock!"

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**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

**The chapter starts right where the first one ended. And this one it's a little longer. Hope you enjoy it.**

**And thank you for the following and the reviews, keep them coming. I loved the feedback! :D**

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"You're staying outside with me." John spoke to the girl as Sherlock sped up his pace and she tried to follow him. "You're too young to go in there."

Layla grimaced but accepted the order.

Sherlock, who had taken the lead, was now entering the morgue. Once he met the man standing there, waiting for him he grumbled. "Uh, what are you doing here?"

It seemed to be a rhetorical question because Sherlock walked out of the morgue before the man voicing an answer.

"That was fast." John joked, yet added. "What happened in there?"

"I'm putting you up to this case."

"What? Why?" John asked being pushed inside the morgue by Sherlock. Just like Sherlock, once he saw the man waiting for them, he squinted and backed a few steps. He opened the door and spoke to Sherlock, standing outside the door. "What is Anderson doing here?"

"I don't know and I have no utter interest in finding out."

"Yeah, me neither." John whispered.

"You realize this place has a good acoustic and I'm listening to everything?" Anderson complained.

"We were not trying to be soundless, either." Sherlock indifferently affirmed.

"Have some patience and deal with him. I'm sure Lestrade couldn't come and sent him to report to him." John asked.

"Alright."

Sherlock entered the morgue and John exited to stay with Layla when he no longer found her. Instead of panicking and starting to look for her, he just entered the morgue finding her close by Sherlock. He sighed deeply; what else could he really do?

"Show me the victim." Sherlock ordered. "And be sure to report everything correct to Lestrade."

"Louis Gill, 52-years-old, co-founder and Chief Executive of Gill-McGrory Constructions." Anderson pulled back the white bed sheet that was covering the body of a fifty-ish man, saying. "And, I'm not reporting to Lestrade."

"You want to impress the boss by solving a case." Sherlock deduced. "Thinking about climbing up the hierarchy stairs, why? Seeking for a better salary? Are you a gambler like John and can't afford your debts?" John exhaled deeply, walking around the room, pretending to be as deaf as a post. "Or perhaps you're doing this because-"

"Professional achievement." Anderson simply answered.

"Uhm, Mr. Sherlock, say," Layla awaken his attention with her question, and he was listening to her even though he was examining the deceased's man body. "isn't he cheating? If you're helping him with this case then he won't develop a rational thinking so will never be able to fulfill his duties when on a higher position job."

"Who do you think you are to speak like that to me? And how did you get here anyway?" Anderson stared the girl in such a scornful way that she was a bit scared. "Who's this brat?" He rudely spat out.

Sherlock raised his look and glared Anderson for a while, and spoke to Layla, only breaking eye contact with Anderson a little later. "Some people need to cheat to achieve things in life."

"Is that an insult at me?"

"If the cap fits, wear it; if not, just shut up, I'm trying to think." Sherlock took a look around, looking for John. "Tell me what you see on his bruise, John."

The doctor leaned forward, analyzing the hematoma on the neck of the victim. "It's inconsistent…" He spoke, puzzled, looking at Sherlock.

That was what was bothering Sherlock as well. On the right side of his neck, the perfect bruise in a shape of a hand; on the left side, the pattern was different.

After examining what he found pertinent about the man, Sherlock asked. "Suspects?" John continued to look at the dead man, and so was Layla intrigued by the irregular contusion, just like Sherlock was.

"No suspects so far. But we believe it was the burglar who entered their house. Gill was found dead by his wife Amelia when the house alarm went off. His friend Vincent McGrory arrived their house a matter of minutes later."

"Where was Gill when she found him?"

"In his office room, as Mrs. Gill said he was always at."

"But how was he? Where exactly did she found him?" Sherlock insisted.

Anderson, skeptical as always with an irrational thinking method, questioned. "Why does that matter?"

"It matters!" Sherlock raised his voice. "Where was he?"

"He was in the office," Sherlock turned his eyes at him again, and he elaborated. "sitting on the chair."

"Odd time to sit and relax when his house was being burgled!" John concluded.

"What do you have on the wife and the friend?"

"Here," Anderson handed Sherlock two case files. "His wife, Amelia Gill and his friend Vincent McGrory."

Sherlock went quickly through the files, finding the two main ideas. On Amelia's file there was a photo of her with her husband and their child, Harold, spitting image of his father. On McGrory's file was written that he a war veteran who was wounded in combat; two gunshots to the chest and a severed finger. He also saw that he was the entrepreneur of the construction company he ran with Gill and that he was jeopardizing the company's profits by making the wrong investments; Gill-McGrory Constructions was going through rough times.

"John, take a look at this photo." Sherlock asked, showing him the Gill's family photo. "Harold's a spitting image of his father isn't he?"

"If by father you mean Vincent McGrory, then yes, he is." John concluded comparing both photos.

"Anderson, how many fingers does McGrory have?"

"All ten, why? Isn't this about the burglar?"

"He has a prosthetic finger then. Of course, that's it!" Anderson was dumbfounded looking at Sherlock. Even John had already followed his friend's logical explanation. "It explains it all."

Evaluating the Forensic Investigator's confused face, Layla spoke. "You're not a very smart man are you?" Layla mocked and Sherlock smirked slightly. He loved the fact that someone other than him ridiculed Anderson. "What man would be sitting on his chair when his house is being robbed? Obviously the robbery was just a distraction. He let his killer walk in the room; he knew him very well."

"Have you gone through the drawers of his desk?" Sherlock didn't let Anderson speak, continuing. "Of course not, because you're being driven by the idea that he was killed by a burglar. Gill let McGrory into his office. To him he presents DNA tests, proving that Harold isn't his son. Adding the bad investments he was making to the fact his wife has been cheating on him for years and conceived a child that wasn't his made him loose control, but McGrory was a military man and tamed him immediately. Yet, as he has a prosthetic finger, the strangling bruise becomes very distinctive and easily traced back to him."

"Are you claiming that the man I'm looking for his McGrory?"

"Either that or Mr. Gill was strangled by a very posh man! You know, killed him the same way he drinks tea: stuck his pinky up when killing him!" Layla spoke, making John crack up and laugh a little, placing his hand on her shoulder. Anderson didn't find it hilarious at all, especially because the girl had a mocking grin on her face.

Sherlock was going through his phone when he said. "If I were you, I'd try to stop the flight that departs from Heathrow Airport to Edinburgh. McGrory and Gill are on the passengers' list, and so is young Harold."

Anderson was confused, looking at the three but ended up walking out of the morgue, pulling of his phone, making the necessary calls to retain the airplane on British soil.

John covered Gill's body with the bed sheet again and asked the little girl. "Enjoying this?"

"Yes. When are you solving the next murder?"

"Hopefully very soon." Sherlock said, walking out of the morgue.

"Where are we going now then?" The girl asked curious.

"Eating. John's paying."

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Night came very fast upon London town. John tried to offer his bed for Layla to sleep but she didn't want, saying the couch would be more than enough since she's a guest and she's young, unlike John who had been complaining about his backache all day. The doctor couldn't do anything but to agree with her decision.

He headed to bed earlier than usual, saying he was feeling heartburn due to the very spicy dinner choice of Layla. Sherlock was feeling it a bit as well, but didn't pronounce it.

"Mr. Sherlock, can I grab a book from your shelf?"

"Yes." He simply answered.

She looked at the vast collection of his books and saw the one she wanted to read. She wanted one that was on the top shelf but couldn't reach. Layla was ready to pick up a chair to grab it but Sherlock got up.

"Which one is it?"

"_Nightwatch_." She answered. "Thank you."

Layla sat on the couch, putting the book over her legs, flipping through the pages. Sherlock sat on the armchair, watching television, mostly correcting the television.

"You're not reading it." He stated.

"I can read all the books and know all about astronomy with daddy."

"You like it for the photos."

Layla had a genuine smile on her face as she nodded and showed him a page of the book. "Isn't it beautiful?"

"Beautiful or ugly is subjective to one's likes. But, it is... superb indeed to see what we have before us."

"When I ask daddy to come and look at the sky with me, he sometimes starts teaching me things. It's good, I like learning…"

"But sometimes it's better to turn off the brain and just enjoy."

"Is it wrong? Do you feel like doing it sometimes?"

"If money could buy anything, I'd buy silence every once in a while."

Layla continued to flip through the book, staring at the images. Sherlock no longer paid attention to the television, putting his eyes on her. He knows how awful it feels to have a mind constantly working. Now, as a grown man, he learnt to sooth the noise, but when child, it could be painful sometimes.

John got up to have a glass of water. Internally he was curious to know how everything was going on. He didn't know if Layla was asleep or not, or if Sherlock had gone to bed too. He didn't walk in the room when he saw the two of them.

"Do you have siblings?"

"A brother, Mycroft, seven years older than I am."

"Do you two get along?"

"Brothers are the natural enemies ever since the begin of times. Take Abe and Cain for example: one murdered the other because of jealousy."

"But it's not like your brother has tried to kill you, right?"

"No, but he's jealous!" Typical Sherlock, John thought, tends to overreact when it's something about him and Mycroft.

Layla giggled and Sherlock drew a small smile. "But when you were kids, did you get along?"

"Every once in a while. Sometimes he'd be a good brother."

Layla didn't ask anything else that Sherlock spoke next; it just flowed out of his mouth as his mind was going through flashbacks.

"When it was just me and Mycroft around the house, he'd be reading Policy books and I'd be doing my experiments, until I'd get bored. I'd nag him so he'd stop reading and play pirates with me. There were days when he'd not want to play with me. Other days he'd put down the books and pretend to go have some water or go to the bathroom. I'd wrap the books on a blanket, making a bundle out of it, tying it with a tight knot, and hide it really well. Mycroft would walk in the living room with two umbrellas, immediately engaging pirate dialect."

_Mycroft was balled up on the couch, engrossed on the reading of one of his many policy books. He was starting to blink his eyes, getting gradually tired of reading such thick books. Policy books are his passion and he reads them for hours, but in days like that one, he'd get too lazy to get up and turn on a light, so he'd get eye-weary really quick. Not to mention the amount of hours reading tired his brain as well._

_Sherlock sat next to him, engaging a weird eye contact that he knew Mycroft hated. He tried to ignore him but it was stressing and disturbing having his brother's eyes laid on him. Mycroft slowly turned his head, meeting his brother's look._

"_Play pirates with me."_

"_I'm reading a book."_

"_For the past three hours!"_

"_And weren't you doing experiments for the last three hours? I didn't go there and ask you to do anything for me."_

"_Play pirates with me." He insisted._

"_I don't want, Sherlock."_

"_Play pirates with me!" He insisted once more. "Play pirates with me. Play pirates with me." Sherlock persistently continued asking. _

"_I don't feel like it, Sherley."_

"_Sherley…" Sherlock spoke. "You just call me 'Sherley' when you're being nice to me! Play pirates with me."_

"_I'll get some water before I lose my temper." Mycroft said, getting up, leaving the book over the couch._

_More than being a gifted child, he was still his younger brother of seven of age, and just like any other younger sibling, he'd nag him, for hours if needed, so he'd do what he wanted. There were days when Mycroft would not have the patience and the will to do stuff with him, but that day wasn't the day. Mycroft was tired of reading and Sherlock had behaved the whole day. And, not to mention that mum always loved to see her two sons getting along every once in a while. _

_As soon as Mycroft wasn't seeing him, Sherlock picked up the blanket laid over the couch and the book. The bundle he made was now his treasure chest that he had just hide. Mycroft casually walked in the room with his arms behind his back. Sherlock was standing in the middle of the living room. Mycroft looked to the couch and didn't find his book._

"_Ye took over me belonging's as ye loot. Prepare to sword fight 'n die," He said, throwing at him one of the umbrellas he had brought. "I won't gift up! Ye severed head gunna be marvelous spiked up on me ship's mast!"_

"_Shiver me timbers! Ye'll before I sail out be at Davy Jones' Locker, savvy, cap'n Shorties?"_

_Sherlock was ready to start the pretend sword fight when Mycroft stopped him by holding the umbrella. "I thought we had agreed in not comparing heights anymore." Mycroft complain, somewhat resentful. "You'll be tall than me-"_

_"And smarter!"_

_"And smarter," Mycroft gave in but concluded. "but at least I'll always be the oldest."_

_"Why would I want to be the oldest anyway?"_

_"I can boss you around. One word of mine to mummy and you're done! How many times did I save your arse from trouble with mummy? Not to mention saving you from troubles with father many times!"_

_Sherlock ignored the speech Mycroft was giving him. He indeed loved to boss him around. Mycroft grew old too fast to look after his brilliant little brother. Like that Sherlock would never have to fully grow up. As Mycroft puts it, Sherlock 'just grows up but doesn't grow older'._

_"Did ye lose interest in me loot?" Sherlock spoke wielding the umbrella at his brother. "Come 'n challenge me cap'n Shorties! That be, if ye want ye belongin's back!"_

"_Brin' it on!"_

"My loot were Mycroft's policy books. Our swords were umbrellas. Our ship was the living room."

"Who won more times?" Layla asked, curious.

"Me, of course." Sherlock bragged. "Mycroft's a little too slow to win me, even though he always said he'd let me win so I wouldn't sulk."

John chuckled quietly so he wouldn't be heard and returned to his bed. Those two would get along and be fine.

"Well," Sherlock said, getting up. "you should sleep because so will I."

"Goodnight Mr. Sherlock." Layla spoke, wrapping herself on the blanket John had given her earlier.

"Goodnight." He mumbled.

After long minutes of tossing and turning in bed, Sherlock realized he wouldn't fall asleep too soon. He wanted to go to the living room and play his violin, but Layla was there. He exhaled thoroughly and accommodated on bed, trying to get some sleep. Layla, on the other room, was also having troubles falling asleep. Sherlock could listen to her whispering things. At first he thought she'd be praying but when he paid more attention to it, he realized she was just him was when a kid.

When he couldn't fall asleep he'd be reciting random stuff, excerpts from books he read, naming each element of the period table, remembering the dictionary entries, synonyms of his favorite words, anything would be good to run his mind to an exhaustion point. But sometimes the exhaustion point wouldn't come before the sunrise. There was one thing though that started helping him soothing the noise on his head: music.

Young Sherlock would put aside every rational thought, close his eyes and focus on the first music piece that would come to his head. In his head he pictured himself under a cloudless sky in the middle of a wheat field, the wind running through him and the opus playing. It soothed him and he'd fall asleep.

So, he closed his eyes and listened to wind running violently on the outside and occasional thunders. A storm was arising. In his head, the first composition that he head was the prelude of Bach's _Suite No. 5 in C minor_. But then there was Layla whispering things which was throwing him off his thoughts.

He understood how awful that feeling was. Being so, he got up and walked to the living room, watching her. Layla had her eyes shut tightly, face turned to the couch as she was reciting the _First Quarto_ of Shakespeare's _Hamlet_.

"_Which puzzles the brain, and doth confound the sense,__Which makes us rather bear those evils we have, Than fly to others that we know not of. Aye that, O this conscience makes cowards of us all,_" Layla stopped because she didn't know anything else.

Sherlock finished. "_Lady in thy orisons, be all my sins remembered._"

She turned around to face Sherlock. "I was being too loud?"

"Somehow, yes." He said. Sherlock couldn't sleep, neither could Layla and he may knew how to solve the problem. Yet, he was having a mind wrestle, evaluating if he should continue with his speech or not. "Follow me." He finally spoke as he walked to the door grabbing his jacket. "Bring your coat and the blanket."

Layla got up, put on her trainers and took with her the blanket. She put on her jacket as Sherlock asked her to and found him waiting just outside the door for her to come.

* * *

**Any ideas to where is Sherlock taking Layla?**

**Oh, and did you enjoy the chapter? **


	3. Chapter 3

**Another big chapter. Let's just hope it's any good as the others were!**

* * *

Layla loyally followed every of Sherlock's steps. The wind was strong, making the two of them clench their coats against their bodies. He stopped before a tall building and looked up at its rooftop. Layla stopped right behind him and saw the fire escape ladder. As Sherlock climbed his way up, so did the little girl. When on the top of the building, the two gazed the night view over London. Magnificent view indeed. Up their heads, thunders ripped the sky in two and deafened them for a while. The blustery weather was installed, and it wouldn't take much long for the heavy black clouds to shower the city.

"Why are we up here?" Layla questioned. "The weather is _Baltic_ and a storm is arising."

"Yes, isn't it fascinating? Have you stopped to listen all these sounds?"

"I don't need to stop, the thunders are loud enough! Why are we here?"

"You can't sleep, neither can I. You like the stars, I like music. If you want to get some sleep, abstract yourself from rational thinking and have only in your mind what you love the most."

Layla covered her ears as a sharp and long thunder cracked. "What music is to listen in here? And what stars to see? The sky is covered with clouds."

Sherlock closed his eyes, absorbing every sound. "The music is all around us, all you have to do is listen. It's in the wind, the thunders, the immanence of falling rain. Just close your eyes."

"Mr. Sherlock," She spoke with a grin. "you do know that ma mum plays at an orchestra. I'm used to listen to music, and this is what I do. I just close my eyes and listen to everything. The eyes can deceive and distract us from listening clearly."

"Then shush and listen."

Layla did so, but after a while her eyes are wide opened and focused on the sky. "There's Lodestar…" She mumbled. There was no other star she could properly see but that one.

"What's a-" Sherlock opened his eyes. "Where is it?"

The girl turned to him with a shocked expression. "You can't locate Polaris in the sky?"

"I'm not very much into astronomy. In fact, John keeps on ridicule me for knowing very little about the Solar System."

"How little do you know?"

Sherlock grimaced, admitting. "Not knowing that the Earth goes around the sun?"

"That's as ridiculous as if you'd say that the Earth is flat!"

"Does it make any difference whether the Earth goes around the Sun or the Earth goes around the moon?"

"The sun is the essential part of everything that happens. No sun means no life."

"Even so, it's superfluous information. Ignorant people stuff up their brains with unimportant stuff; I must keep my brain working like a well-oiled machine, otherwise it rots."

"Without the stars, the matter in the universe would be restricted to atoms of hydrogen and helium only. Other elements are formed inside stars through nuclear fusion reactions. Large stars consume their nuclear fuel quickly, and end their lives in a huge explosion, which disperses all these atoms created inside in a large region of space. In the case of the solar system, one of these big stars existed before the sun. After its explosion, its remnants joined again to form the Sun and planets. The atoms that make us up were created inside a star that exploded. The nitrogen in our DNA, the calcium in our teeth, the iron in our blood, the oxygen that feeds our lungs were made in the interiors of collapsing stars. We are made of starstuff, harvesting sunlight. Our dimension compared to the size of the universe is nothing. We are insignificant but we believe being the most important part. We are no more than just small cosmic particles of dust. Our posturing, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves. For small creatures such as we the vastness is bearable only through love…"

After that, neither of them drew another sound. Sherlock was engrossed on what Layla had told him. Even though she merely scientifically explained him things and quoted Carl Sagan, he was mulling over her words.

That was until he abruptly opened his eyes and said in a hurry, walking to the ladder. "Let's go, it will start to rain."

"How do you know? We've been standing here for a while and it hasn't rain."

"Do you want to stay here and prove my point by getting soaking wet? Come on _Scouser_!"

Layla ran to the ladder and the two made their way to the floor in a hurry. Just then raindrops started to hit them. Layla wrapped her hand around his pinky and middle fingers, pulling him for a run. Sherlock froze as the rain started to pour more and more intensively.

"What you waiting for? Run!"

He watched the girl being soaked by the rain. She let go off his hand and started to run on her own when the raindrops turned into heavy hail. Sherlock ran after her while stripping off his jacket that he put over her head, wrapping it around her. He picked her up in arms and ran. She guffawed loudly, being taken by surprise. Layla wrapped her arms around Sherlock's neck and he turned cold and tried to not register any emotional connection about what was happening.

Sherlock made his way up to the second floor of the flat in a matter of seconds. He was breathless, completely soaking wet and stopped to breathe before even putting her on the floor. When he did, she freed herself from the jacket that Sherlock bundled her in and laughed. Sherlock looked at the innocence of that child, laughing at him with happiness glowing in her eyes and a huge grin on her face. He couldn't help but to laugh along.

"You're good?"

"Yeah," She said recovering her breath. "But you're dripping water. You should clean yourself before you catch a cold."

"Yeah, I…" Sherlock looked around, seeming to be lost. "I'm going to grab you a towel. Take off your jacket, it's soaked."

He came back giving her a towel so she'd at least dry her hair. As he was soaked, he'd head for a shower before going to bed.

"I think we've had enough for tonight. You should get some rest now."

"I will."

The truth is that even after a warm shower and the coziness of his bed, Sherlock didn't sleep a wink all night. That speech Layla said was still on his head. It gave him enough matter to keep his brain working all night.

* * *

John had a nice awakening, which he found strange. Midmorning, no strange noises, Sherlock wasn't going through his stuff; that morning was starting off quite well unlike other days.

He got dressed and walked to the floor below. The curtains were open and he saw Layla sitting at the table, writing something. John looked everywhere and didn't find Sherlock.

"Where is he?"

Layla lifted her head. "I dunno. He ain't sleepin'?" She spoke almost on a mumble.

"No, he's not anywhere. But we don't have to worry; he leaves like this plenty of times." John scanned the room, saying. "He took his violin though so he's up to something."

Something lighted him and he looked for his own wallet. He still had all his money and documents, so wherever Sherlock had gone he didn't take anything from him.

"So, how did you sleep?"

"Good. And so did you I assume."

"Yes, indeed I slept really good. The heartburn that I got is long gone."

John peered over her shoulder to see what she was writing. "English homework; forgot about it." She said.

"Well, how about we go have breakfast once you're done?"

"Oh, I'm done." Layla spoke getting up; leaving the pencil over the notebook that was laid over the table. "Can I just change clothes first?"

"Sure." John observed her movements until he saw her walking to her satchel and taking out of it the clothing ball she had put in there. "Of course, you brought clothing. Smart." He smiled. "Bathroom is right over there." He pointed.

While she was in there, John couldn't resist and looked over to read what she had written on that allegedly English homework. It was poetry writing and he was delighted with what he read; after all she's still a child, innocent and pure.

The color you own_, _by Layla J. Conrad

When I'm a grown-up

I'll invent

a perfume to content.

Who smells it

will be

the color of skin

they most please to be.

White or yellow

If you preach

black or red

you just have to wish.

To cheer you

I'm even brooding

in other colors putting.

Pink

green or purple

they're pretty colors

why so trouble?

And so

it will come

the day of no wrong

that the value

of a lone

cannot be appraised

by the color

you own.

And so

everything will be okay.

"Are we leaving for breakfast?" She said as she walked back in the room.

"Ah, yes, yes." John dropped the notebook over the table as soon as he heard her voice and turned around to face her. "We're going downstairs to Speedy's."

"Are you paying, Mister?"

John extended his hand at her, that she willingly held as the two made their way downstairs. "Call me just John. And yes, I'm paying. After you hang out with Sherlock you realize you've got to pay for things."

Layla laughed and explained. "I just asked because I feel bad. I'm just a guest here."

"Believe me, you're by far the best and most interesting guest we've had. And the one that is staying the longest."

Curious and expecting a hilarious answer, she asked as the two were taking a seat at one of the tables. "And who was the guest who stayed the shortest time?"

"The one guy that entered by the door and left through the window." John received the menu and thanked as the lady walked away. "What are you having?"

"Anything that comes up with bacon!"

"Ok," John looked at the menu. "with bacon I think I can order you this one: a fried egg, a sausage and bacon, served with a mug of tea."

"You can have the tea if you want."

"Alright, then I order just a toast with butter."

In the midst of their meal, John asked. "Have you ever been to London?"

"I was going to come once with mum but there was a big storm."

"Is there anything you'd like to see around here? I can take you there."

"Uhm, I think a walk on the park would be nice."

John nodded his head in agreement. When they finished their meal, the two left. Who'd see them walking hand in hand, so amusingly chatting would have the lovely vision of a father and a daughter walking around.

Layla got her attention captivated when they walked by a playground. "Want to go there?"

"That's for little kids!"

"I see children older than you in there."

"Them being taller doesn't mean they are older." She reasoned.

"I can tell you, they are older. If you want to go, it's fine by me."

She was reluctant, but gave the idea a thought. She ended up letting go off his hand and walking in. she walked right of to the sandbox where two boys were already playing.

Layla always preferred to play alone, because what it begins to be a friendly child's play always ends the same way; a way she doesn't like. It didn't take long for long for John to understand that as well. She kindly asked for a toy bucket and helped them built a big sandcastle that they have been trying to do for quite a while now. The problem was when she explained them why they had failed.

"Piss off, freak!" One of the kids told her. Layla looked at John, to check if he had listened that. He had purposely looked away once he heard it.

Layla thanked them for letting her play for that while and then she walked crestfallen to the swings, taking a seat on one. It always ends like that.

She felt her swing being pushed. When she looked back she smiled, happy. John was pushing her. He smiled back and pushed her for a long time. What started a compensatory act from John ended up being a heartwarming gesture, as if he was doing it to his child with no other purpose other to make her smile and be happy.

* * *

On their way back to the flat, John phoned Sherlock to know where he was and what exactly was he up too. He was playing violin for dogs on an animal shelter, apparently testing the effects of sound on the animals. John didn't sketch a word because some of Sherlock's experiments will always be his odd experiments, which he rarely understands its useful purposes for a real life situation.

Sherlock entered the flat it was ten to three in the afternoon. His pants and coat were tattered, probably from dog bites. John and Layla were playing Go Fish and once the doctor saw his friend, he put down his cards to check if he was alright. John grabbed the first aid kit, healing the few and superficial bite marks. Quickly he realized Sherlock's real meaning of his absence.

"That was very noble of you."

"What? Playing violin for the dogs? They could have shown more esteem then! If they didn't enjoy the violin screech they could have verbalized it!"

"Dogs do not speak, Sherlock. I don't know if you're aware of that." John mocked.

"They could have barked or whimpered." Layla backed up the detective.

"Alright," The doctor said taking his seat at the table to continue playing with the little girl. "stop allying to poke fun at me. I know that among the three of us I'm not the smartest."

John's statement was wrong; he was smart indeed. Smart enough to know that Sherlock took his violin just to throw the smart little girl off her game. She couldn't know the real meaning of his absence. Sherlock just forgot to remove the five nicotine patches off his arm. Or maybe he didn't forget; maybe he just wanted John to feel a little smarter too.

* * *

Layla's poem is real. It's a translation and adaption that I made of the poem A_ cor que se tem_ by Maria Cândida Mendonça, Plátano Editora, 1986.

**So, well, did you enjoy the chapter? Is there anything you'd like to see next?**


	4. Chapter 4

**I already had the intention of writing a heart-to-heart scene between John and Layla (just like ObservationofTrifles suggested me), but I just didn't know what exactly. I figured it out a little later and wrote. On this chapter, John also has a flashback, similar to what I did to Sherlock.**

**And there's a little of Johnlock on this too. A little that for some people can be seen as normal friendship but for shippers is seen as Johnlock.**

**Hope you guys like the chapter. xD**

* * *

The three left for eating when the night fell over the town. They were going to Angelo's restaurant. Once they hopped on the cab, Sherlock was silent while Layla climbed to John's lap, her eyes glazed on the night view of London. John was telling her all about the view, pointing on the window and Layla showed excitement in seeing the city.

The tall man entered the restaurant first, heading immediately for the table near the window. Then John and Layla walked in, hand in hand, amusingly talking. They sat down with Sherlock.

"Oh, you two are adopting!" Angelo teased, greeting the newcomers.

"We're not a-" John started.

"I know!" Angelo laughed as he tapped John's shoulder. "I just like to tease you about it." John sighed as he received the menu. "Anything you order is on the house because of this pretty lady. What's your name, precious Miss?"

Layla giggled, answering. "My name is Layla."

The man held her hand, but instead of kissing its back as it should be, he planted a kiss on his own wrist. "Pleased to meet you. I'm Angelo. Your wishes will turn into my orders."

Angelo then left, letting them chose what they wanted to eat. Sherlock discarded that option. He was still not fully recovered from the five nicotine patches. Perhaps five patches had been a little too much.

"Theresa, please," A man from a table next to them yelled on the phone. "Chris is my son too and I wanna see him! No, you listen, just because you married that rich bastard that doesn't give you any right-Damn it woman, listen, I'm seeing Chris this weekend."

Layla's eyes were locked on that man. Both Sherlock and John noticed that, but only John decided to do something. He walked to the man and lightly patted his shoulder.

"Would you mind being a little quieter?"

"What the-?" The man got up and faced John. "Am I bothering your date night with your lovebird?"

"No," John ripped the phone off his hand and threw it over the table. "it's just that there's a kid in here, whose parents are divorced too. Maybe you should evaluate a little better your behavior."

John returned to his seat as the man cursed him a couple of times. Layla spoke once the mood was calmer. "Why can't parents just admit that the reason for their divorce is their kids?"

"No, Layla," John spoke softly. "I'm sure your parents didn't divorce because of you-"

"Oh, I know!" She promptly said, cutting him off. "They divorced because of Dom, my older brother… He was smart as hell but had no friends. He was bullied at school and poked fun at. He rebelled and did all the wrong stuff to try to be normal for once. Three years ago, on his fifteenth birthday, he sent himself a gift, a box with a rope inside… Mum and daddy found him hanging on his bedroom. Why did they worry about him so much? He only caused trouble."

_He only caused trouble_, echoed on the doctor's head. John was static and turned his eyes out the window as thoughts flowed his head.

"_What do you recommend, Dr. Watson?" Hamish inquired his son._

"_Uhm," John mumbled. "some rest for now is the best. Then perhaps you should call a real doctor."_

_Hamish chuckled, which lead to a dry coughing. Once he was recovered, he ruffled his son's hair and John tapped his leg, saying. "Rest, papa." _

"_Okay, but I think I'd like to have a doctor by my side. Just in case."_

"_Alright." John said with a giggle, crawling under the bed sheets, lying down next to his father. _

_The two open a book and read. Hamish put his eyes on his son every once in a while, being proud of him. John dreams becoming a doctor so he can help people. Hamish was suffering from a common flu, but whenever he's sick, he always let his nine-year-old son examine him, just for the fun. _

"_Mr. Watson," The two men put down book once they listened the maid's voice. "is there anything I can do for you?" _

"_No, thank you very much, Amanda. I've got my doctor with me." The maid smiled looking at the little boy. "Although, maybe you could bring him a snack."_

"_Of course." She excused herself and was about to leave when Hamish asked. "Amanda, has my daughter arrived home?"_

"_No, sir. Do you want me to inform you once she arrives?"_

"_Yes, please." This time the maid excused herself and left the bedroom._

"_Papa, stop worrying about Harriet so much. She only causes trouble."_

"_John, I can't just give up on your sister like this."_

_John sighed and picked up his book again, reading. Hamish eyed his son, concerned, as he showed nothing but indifference about his sister. He knows he's right; his teenage daughter causes him nothing more than trouble and gives him and his wife sleepless nights. _

_Hamish didn't need to be warned by the maid that Harriet was home because he noticed it. Nathaniel, the family's chauffer, tried to hold the teenage girl, but she was so drunk that she collapsed and fell over every piece of furniture, wrecking everything on her way to her bedroom. Hamish jumped off the bed, dressed his robe and walked out to check the deplorable state of his daughter and drag her to bed. _

_His wife Nancy is on her way too. Nathaniel muttered an "I'm sorry" to his bosses and left with sadness in his eyes. He remembered Harriet as a wonderful and precious child that he watched grow up through the years and it also wrecked his heart to see what she had become. _

_The only person who can't feel sorry for Harriet is her brother. He hates what his sister does to him, bullying him non-stop. And he especially hates her for breaking their parents' hearts like that. She befriended with the wrong people and ever since, it had been a down fall. John lied down on his side, pulled the bed sheets closer and closed his eyes, ignoring his sister's drunken yells. He just focused on sleeping, which he did in a matter of minutes. He no longer cared for someone as reckless as Harriet._

"John!" Sherlock loudly called, shaking him. John was pulled from his thoughts, startled. "You were worse than me when I'm in my mind palace!"

"Ah, sorry."

It wasn't common to see John that unsettle. Whatever he was thinking messed with him and Sherlock was concerned in his own way. "All okay?"

"Yes, yes." He said, taking a deep breathe, settling in the chair.

During all dinner John was quiet, keeping his eyes on Sherlock. Layla looked at the two of them between mouthfuls of food. She knew what she told them caused a reaction, she just couldn't understand what was happening. Sherlock knew John was looking at him; he could feel it, yet he chose to ignore continued to look at the outside.

Sherlock got up and hailed a cab, going back to the flat. John followed his movements with the eyes, but let him go. There was something going on that Layla couldn't understand.

"I'm sorry for what I said. I don't know what I did, but I know I did something!"

John couldn't disguise his concern. He put down the cutlery, explaining. "What you said about your brother… I used to think just like you about my sister… The only difference was that she didn't kill herself and she wasn't a bright mind."

"Then why are you worried?"

"Sher… Sherlock… he's a bright mind but everyone calls him a freak, a cold person, keep on pushing him away… they question his motives, what drives him. They want to label him with things he's not… He has a heart. And he does care, even though he doesn't express it. I know it, I've seen it! But people judge him wrongly, and I know it affects him… I just hope… I… I don't want him to… end his life, you know? I know his self-love is big, but it is finite as everything in life… I just don't want him to cross certain lines."

"You don't have to worry; as long as you are around he's okay. You two are lucky for having each other."

"People keep on saying that but they never elaborate."

"You two complement each other. He's the brains, you're the heart. He led you into an exciting and thrilling life, proved you that life after military doesn't have dull. He makes the blood rush in your veins, makes you feel useful and helps you saving others outside the battlefield. Helping him even… You keep him safe, keep him sane. You don't judge him, you friendly scold him; you don't label him or push him away, you compliment him, make him feel unique in a good way; you don't take him for granted, you've earned his friendship. It isn't easy to earn friendship from people like us. You helped him rediscovering the more human and warming side of him. He has a heart, I believe you. I've seen it too… You are important to him. If you're gone he falls… it's a reciprocal feeling… How long do you two know each other?"

"For about year and a half."

"Alright, how do you measure a year of your life after meeting him? And don't answer me with obvious things."

"Obvious things?"

"Yeah, that a year has 12 months, 52 weeks, 365 days, 8765 hours, 525600 minutes, over 31 million seconds. Describe a year of your life after meeting him; describe it the way you feel it."

"I guess I could say then that, uhm… I can describe it in daylights, sunsets and midnights;" John chuckled before continuing. "no matter what time it is, he always finds something to do. I'd describe it with the cups of coffees we share, that are not that few thus, must I say. The miles we travel, the inches of fields and evidences we exploit. The times we laugh and strife… The wounds we suffer that are worth the pain…"

"What about anger and hate? Aren't those measures in a life?"

"Anger and hate are meaningless and weak feelings. Bitterness is paralytic; love is much more vicious motivator. You don't risk your life trying to eliminate someone you hate; you risk your life trying to save someone you love."

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson… brothers… not in blood, but in bond." Layla concluded. "You yourself elaborate the point that you two are lucky for having each other."

John looked down at his plate, stirring the food with the fork. What else was he supposed to say after that? After having been told by a seven-year-old what adults don't seem to understand? Adults lack creativity and understanding. She's pure, innocent, young. Her mind is still in the process of shaping, but everyone knows she won't let herself be shaped by others' ideals. Her eyes and heart still live as a child but her mind thinks like an adult. That's her big advantage: feel with the heart, thinks with the head; not everybody can do it. And even fewer people know when to think and when to feel. She observed Sherlock and John and got her conclusion. Head and heart had different opinions but the two mingled into the perfect conclusion.

"Well…" John breathed. "What am I supposed to say after this?"

"You say it best when you say nothing at all." John chuckled and continued to eat. "Dominic is the patron saint of the astronomers." Layla spoke out of the blue. "That's why me parents gave him that name… He and daddy used to watch the night sky. Daddy even found a new star and called NASA; it wasn't a major discovering, but even so he named the star Dom. He promised if he'd find another star, he'd give it my name, but after Dom killing himself, daddy never looked for another star in the sky… And mum, before going up the stage to play, would dedicate the musical piece she was about to play to me and Dom. Now it's only to Dom… Every now and then she plays sad music and cries. I get sad because of it."

The doctor stopped eating once she started speaking. It was as if she needed to get it off her system, like she needed someone to unburden. After all, she was just seven-years-old.

"What about you?" He asked. "What were or are your reactions to your brother's death?"

"Don't know. Mum and daddy took me to a lot of psychologists. They say I repressed any memory of Dom. Truth is I was too young to remember anything in detail. I barely remember how he looked like. But I do remember the two of us playing ball in the garden; he was a good big brother. Was your sister a good big sibling too?"

"Harriet, no... No, she was not much of a good sister. Used to bully me, misbehave and then put the blame on me. She was a heart break and a load of troubles for my parents. Later on, she became a disappointment to me. Even today. I just go to the rescue if I'm really needed; otherwise I let her hit her head on the wall until she realizes what she's been doing with her life all along."

"Will you ever forgive her?"

John sighed and admitted. "It's not like I'm mad at her. Only disappointed. So, there's no forgiveness, only acceptance. And about that, only time can tell; maybe I accept her back one day."

"I think maybe we should go back to the flat. Mr. Sherlock will like some company."

"Yeah," John finally let out a smile. "I think he will."

John pulled out of money to pay for the meals and left with Layla. When they arrived the flat, Sherlock was sitting on the armchair and mumbled once they entered.

"I'm bored! Give me something to do."

Layla grabbed the card deck she and John had been playing in the afternoon and threw it to his lap. "Beat me on Go Fish."

"Pssh," Sherlock hissed, throwing the card deck over the table while getting up. "easy."

"Oh, not so easy." John spoke, shuffling the cards. "She's quite something when playing this."

"That's only because you're an idiot, John." Sherlock playfully said, showing a smile.

He pulled a chair and took a seat at the table with them. And so the game began and lasted until Layla fell asleep over the table, her head resting on her arms. John picked her up carefully and laid her on the couch, where she continued to sleep. Sherlock challenged John for a one-on-one last game with him. He walked to bed a little sulked because he lost to John.

* * *

**I believe this is the chapter before the last. Layla is going away with her father on the next chapter.**

**Anything you'd like me to write about it?**

**Comments on this chapter?**


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm sad because this is the last chapter. I had a blast writing this, I loved it so much.**

**Hope you get to enjoy the last chapter. Don't forget to leave a final review.**

* * *

When John awoke up in the morning, he was surprised to find Sherlock up as well. Layla was still sleeping on the couch and he made his way into the room, looking around for something. The consulting detective leisurely enjoyed his breakfast with a pleasant expression on his face.

"Don't do that, especially once she awakes up."

"Do what?" Sherlock mumbled as he turned the newspaper's page, not understanding. As he tells John, he can't get a look of the faces he's making.

"I know you must be… relieved, that she's going home, but don't be blatant about it."

"Oh, no, I'm like this because Lestrade just phoned me. There's a case, and this time it's a real case and not one of Anderson's child play." John frowned and continued to rummage through the room. "What are you looking for? I know where everything is."

"Oh, really? Then why can't you find a simple cigarette pack that I hide?"

Sherlock puffed, feeling insulted by his commentary. "I don't find it because I don't want. I'm trying to fight my addictions."

"You inject cocaine in your veins!" John grumbled, a little resentful. He hates it when Sherlock does it. "And by the way, if Lestrade phoned you about a case, what are you doing here?"

"I… uhm…" Sherlock prefer not to answer if he had to show a vulnerable side of him.

Layla was a much more pleasant surprise than he expected her to be. He thought she'd be just a little girl who has a crush on someone she hears about, but she's indeed smart and thought-provoking.

"What is it that you're looking for?" Sherlock insisted, evading John's question.

"It must be in my bedroom." John did exactly the same that Sherlock was doing to him; avoiding answering.

In a matter of minutes John returned to Sherlock's presence and sat down to have breakfast. In his hand Sherlock saw a medal; a bronze star. Its ribbon is red, with a blue stripe in the middle, and on each side of it two thin white strips.

"Bronze Star Medal, awarded for acts of heroism, merit, or meritorious service in a combat zone. It's only given to US military Armed Forces, so it's not yours."

"It was given to me by an American Sergeant. Save his life in Afghanistan."

"And you're giving it to her why?"

John rolled his eyes and continued eating. He couldn't find a real explanation for why he was going to give it to Layla.

"Has me daddy arrived yet?" She mumbled, turning around on the couch.

"No, but you should get up and have breakfast before he arrives." John spoke, pulling a chair. "Come on."

Still sleepy, she dragged her body to the table while rubbing her eyes. "'Morning." She said to the two men as she sat on the chair. "Can you take me to a place before I leave?" She asked, turning her eyes to Sherlock. John looked between the two, puzzled.

"Five minutes, max. I've got a case to solve."

"Oh, bugger! Now that I'm going home?"

"Hurry up then." Sherlock said, getting up.

Layla immediately stuffed her mouth with the toast with jam, chewing it intensively, and drank the milk mug in a single gulp. She wiped the mouth to the shirt sleeves, jumped off the chair and ran right after Sherlock.

John sighed and got up, gathering what was hers, putting it on her satchel, just so when Henry would come by to pick her up, she'd have her bag ready.

Sherlock and Layla looked down at the city's morning movement from the top of the building. The same building they had been two nights before when a storm took over London.

"It's gonna rain again." She said. "I can feel it."

"You don't feel atmospheric phenomena."

"I feel the wind, the humidity in the air. I see the clouds gathering, they are dark, appear heavy, water full."

Sherlock looked up the sky with his hands tucked inside the pants' pockets. "The book, _Nightwatch_… ask John to give it to you. And tell him to meet me; I'll text him where."

"You're not coming back to the flat?"

"No, I'm meeting with Lestrade."

Layla looked at him, sadness mirrored in her eyes. "I wanted to say goodbye to you too."

"Farewells are overrated and eternal." Sherlock walked to the fire escape ladder.

Layla followed him. As he wasn't stopping when they reached the ground, she ran to him and back hugged him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Sherlock stopped and attempted to remove her hands and break free of her hold but he failed, weak and effortlessly.

"Meet you another day." He told her.

"Walk me back to the flat, please?"

"I leave you at the door." He said.

As they walked the road back to 221B, none of them spoke. She reached for his hand, and was surprised when he lightly grasped her hand. As he told her, once they were before the flat's door, he let go of her hand and hailed a cab.

"It was pleasure, Mr. Holmes, to having had the chance to meet you and learn something more."

"Pleasure's all mine." Sherlock answered her as he entered the cab.

Layla knocked on the door and Mrs. Hudson came to open it. She made her way upstairs and found John, looking out the window. He had been trying to figure where the two had gone.

Aware of her presence, he turned around and walked to the couch, telling her. "Come here, I've got something to give you."

"Is it the book? Mr. Holmes told me for you to give it to me. He also said he'll text you where you must meet him."

"No, it's not the book, but if he told you that, then I give you the book. Which one is it?"

"_Nightwatch_."

John looked thoroughly on the book shelf and upon finding it, he handed it to the girl. She rested it on her lap. John came to take a seat next to her again and showed her the medal.

"I want to give you this."

"Is it yours? Were you awarded with it?"

"Kind of. When I was in Afghanistan serving as a doctor, I came across the hardest and probably the most gruesome case I've ever dealt. This American Sergeant named Peter Rowan almost died trying to save a soldier of his unit. Rowan commanded his unit to move forward towards the enemy. Jason was the youngest guy of unit, eighteen of age I think, inexperienced on the battle field, but very brave and willing to serve his country. He moved too quickly; the Afghans noticed him before he could even wield his riffle. Rowan immediately told his whole unit to retrieve and get cover. He negotiated with the Afghans to let go the boy and take him instead. They accepted. Once Jason was back with his unit, they disrespected the Rowan's direct order and in the morning after they burst into the place where he was being kept. They rescued him, too bruised and bashed, tortured, with a gunshot to the kneecap and the other one on the torso. He was dying slowly when he was brought to me. He kept on mumbling for me to save him; that he had a wife and children to home to. For him, it didn't matter what I would do as long he'd live. I didn't have any sedatives to administrate him. I poured down his throat a bottle of alcohol we had lying around, administrated him some painkillers and performed the surgery with him half awaken. I was able to remove both bullets and suture him. He was still yelling bloody hell when I noticed that his leg was infected; I had to amputate it at the moment. Horrific and gruesome…" John said, shaking off his head to put aside those thoughts. "When he returned to America, he was awarded with the Bronze Star Medal. I was astonished to receive from his hands, a couple of months later, that same medal; he said he didn't deserve. He gave it to me for saving his life. I don't believe I deserve it either; I was just fulfilled my duties as a doctor."

"So you want to get rid of it?"

"Not get rid of it, but I want to give it to someone who'll value it. Neither me or him feel to be worth the medal because all we did was fulfill our duties."

"And why giving it to me?"

"Because I know you value it. And, well, you said your father never looked up the sky to find you a star and name it after you. I know it's not the same, but-"

Layla cut his speech by hugging him. "Thank you."

"Well, I've packed your satchel. When your father comes, you're ready to go." John awkwardly spoke, confronted with her hug.

Being with Layla for those three days just feed the little bug on him to find a woman, settle down and have a child.

"I had a blast these three days."

"Glad to know that." John spoke, offering a smile.

"Thank you." She said again while keeping the medal on her pocket.

Layla was the sweetest little girl he has ever met. She was smart, polite and adorable and John couldn't find any more words to say to her; she was deeply and truly thankful for the weekend at 221B.

The doorbell rang.

"It must be your father." John spoke, getting up. "I'll open up."

Layla didn't pay attention to the conversation between her father and John because she had opened the book. She smiled when reading what Sherlock had written on the cover page.

"_Turn off your mind, relax and flow downstream, it is not dying." It's not my saying, but I find it true. _

_SH_

Henry found his daughter smiling at the book. "Hi there."

She bit her tongue and smirked, shrugging. She put aside and ran to him. Henry ducked and the two hugged.

"Missed me much?"

"I did, daddy. Ya know I always miss ya."

John automatically smiled. She no longer was a smart seven-year-old but a little girl who missed her father and started speaking with the accent of her city.

"You're ready to go?"

"Yes. I'm just gonna grab me bag."

Henry stood up again, speaking to John. "Thank you for letting her stay here. And give my thanks to Mr. Holmes as well."

"It was our treat to have her here. She's an amazing little girl. I see a bright future before her."

"Yeah," The man said placing his hand over his daughter's head. "so do I. My sincere thanking once again."

"I'll walk you outside." John spoke, walking ahead of them.

"Mr. Sherlock has texted you, didn't he?"

John laughed a little, answering. "Yeah, he did. Three times already."

Henry hailed a cab right away, and while he was putting his luggage in the trunk, Layla looked back at John. He smile weakly at her once she waved her hand at him.

"It was nice to meet you." John ducked and beckoned her to come closer. "You know, you made me understand Sherlock at little more. There are things he doesn't tell me."

"It's not because he doesn't want, he just doesn't know how to tell them."

"I know."

Layla patted John's shoulder, affirming. "But Mr. Sherlock has also learnt new things about you."

"That's very sweet of you when saying that, but I know it is impossible. Sherlock reads through a person in seconds."

"Sometimes we choose not to read people. It seems rude to analyze our friends." Layla walked to the cab, bidding farewell. "Bye, Mr."

John almost didn't sketch an emotion. He was still embroiled on Layla's words. She was speaking the truth; it's rare for Sherlock to analyze him. In a way he confirmed what he always said to be true: Sherlock has a heart and is capable of feeling emotions, he just can't express them.

* * *

"Took you time." Sherlock spoke once John finally met him.

"I was with Layla. Henry just arrived a while ago."

"So, she's gone…?"

"Yeah. And she took the book, don't worry... Now the flat will feel different." John confessed.

"We can always get a cat."

"Why should it be a cat? A dog would be much better."

"Dogs required more care, are more… needy and clingy!"

"Oh, I see," John started teasing Sherlock. "you want a pet to suit your personality."

"Yes. I don't need a thing begging for attention all the time."

"Is it really that or you don't want to get more bites like it happened on the kennel?" Sherlock breathed more soundly, disapproving John's teasing. The doctor, on the other hand, had a grin on his face. "What are we doing here?"

"Investigating, observing."

"Right, and what's the case about?"

"You'd know if you'd come when I text you!"

"Great, you're gonna sulk now?"

* * *

**The ending, I wanted to give it a sad/humorous sense. Don't if I managed to do it right. Thanks to ObservationTrifles for some ideas.**

**I'm posting a Sherlock one-shot very soon. It involves Mycroft, Sherlock and their mother. Come and give it a read when it's written; I'm sure you'll like it.**


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